Page 33 of Stick Break (Boston Bucks #8)

Rip

“ C ome on, Rip! I want the kitty cat,” Emma says, bouncing on her toes as I grip the toy gun like it’s Game seven of the playoffs.

I aim at the bullseye target, trying to get the red dot to climb, but the damn thing jerks like a wild bronco.

I can land a puck tape-to-tape at full speed, no problem.

But this? This carnival contraption is a different beast.

My time runs out with a sad little splutter from the water stream, and the bell stays silent. The guy beside me fist-pumps and hands a plushie to his grinning daughter.

“These things are totally rigged,” I mutter, stepping back in defeat.

Charley arches an eyebrow and gives me a teasing shrug. “Mind if I show you how it’s done, superstar?”

I wave her forward with exaggerated chivalry. “Be my guest.”

Mrs. Callahan, who’s standing beside me, shoots me a dry look like I just embarrassed the entire male species. “I could’ve nailed that thing blindfolded back in my day,” she says, bobbing her head proudly.

I chuckle, but my stomach twists. Not because of her sass. But because of the conversation we had earlier. One that’s still gnawing at the edges of my mind . I rub a hand over my jaw and shake it off. Not now. Today is for sunshine and ice cream and pretending life is uncomplicated.

The buzzer goes off, and Charley snaps into action. She grips the plastic gun with that same fierce determination I’ve seen when she belts out high notes that make stadiums hold their breath.

“You’re doing it, Charley! You’re doing it!” Emma squeals beside me, grabbing my shirt in excitement and tugging. “That’s the kitty I want, Rip. Right there.”

Charley leans in, tongue caught between her teeth in concentration. Could she be any more adorable. The bell dings. Victory.

Emma explodes in excitement. “She did it. She really did it.”

Charley flashes the kind of triumphant smile that makes my chest tighten, and not in the competitive way. She motions Emma over and bends down, conspiratorially whispering in her ear. Emma giggles and nods like a little accomplice.

A moment later, the booth guy pulls down a ridiculous stuffed animal—a sloth wearing a superhero cape—and hands it over.

Charley turns to me with wide, innocent eyes. “For you,” she says, biting back a smirk. “Because you were a little… slow on the draw.”

I laugh, even as I groan and hold the sloth by one floppy arm. “Really? I had my heart set on that pink unicorn.”

Emma arches. “Okay, let me try again,” she says, cracking her knuckles.

“I was kidding,” I chuckle. “Besides, I think I just got the best prize.”

Charley arches a brow, playful and mysterious, her cheeks pink from the sun—or maybe something else. “Oh, the sloth?”

I take a slow step toward her, eyes locked on hers. “No,” I murmur, voice dipping low. “The girl who gave it to me.”

“Well, you can sweet talk me later. Right now I have a kitty to win.”

My God, could I love this woman anymore?

Love.

There it is. Shit. I said it.

Not out loud, but in my head. And it’s terrifyingly real. Like a puck straight to the chest—no padding.

I lean in closer, dropping my voice just for her. “No, you go ahead. But later, my little rebel, you’re going to have to explain these suspiciously honed carnival skills to me.”

She tosses me a coy grin. “We’ll see.”

Charley steps up again, calm and focused, and, of course, wins again. Like the damn game was designed for her. The carnival guy hands over the plush kitty Emma had her heart set on, and Emma squeals in delight. It warms me from the inside out.

“Grandma, I’m getting hungry,” Emma says, rubbing her belly with dramatic flair.

“Me too,” I add, tossing in a groan for effect.

“Food tent,” Mrs. Callahan declares, already halfway through the crowd in her orthopedic sneakers like she’s training for a senior sprint relay. “Try to keep up.”

I blink. “What the hell does she eat for breakfast?”

Sloth tucked under my arm, Emma’s little hand in mine, we hustle to catch up, though the image of Charley at that game, completely focused, is still flickering like a firework in the back of my mind.

“I can carry that for you, you know,” Charley offers, eyeing the caped sloth clutched to my side.

“Nope. It’s mine. Stop trying to steal it.”

She laughs. “You’re not embarrassed walking around with that thing?” Then she pauses, eyes widening as her hand smacks her forehead. “Wait, what am I saying? This is the guy who wore water wings.”

“Proudly,” I say, chuckling.

I catch her hand and give it a tug, pulling her into my side. She stumbles a little and bumps against me, soft, warm, perfect.

“Oops. Sorry,” she says quickly, brow furrowing in concern. “I didn’t mean to jostle you. Are you… okay?”

Her words are careful, layered with that unspoken understanding. She’s asking about me . My injury. I meet her gaze, heat flickering low in my stomach. “I mean… technically, I’ve been on my feet too long.”

“Damn,” she says, guilt threading through her voice. She glances back. “Want to head home?”

I tilt my head, giving her a look that says exactly what I’m thinking, because, obviously, subtlety is overrated at this point.

“Oh,” she breathes, her lips curling as her eyes spark. “I get it.”

I lean in, murmuring near her ear, my voice a warm whisper just for her. “You get that I want to be off my feet for a different reason?”

Her lips twitch, but she’s trying hard not to smile. “Yes, Rip. You don’t have to spell it out for me.”

I grin and run my tongue slowly over my bottom lip. “You sure? You once told me I was great with the alphabet. Want me to start with A ?”

“Oh. My. God.” She covers her face, laughing, cheeks flushed.

Emma, oblivious to our increasingly flirty undertones, skips beside us singing a made-up song about cotton candy and sloths.

Me? Well I’m floating. On air. On fire. On her.

She rolls her eyes—but doesn’t say no—as we turn toward Mrs. Callahan, who’s waving us over to a picnic table. But just as we’re about to step forward, someone jumps in front of us and flash…a blinding burst of light goes off.

I flinch, blinking stars from my eyes. “What the hell…?”

Emma lets go of my hand and bolts toward her grandmother. I nearly panic, but remember we’re not in the city.

“Getting pictures for the local paper,” the guy says as he darts off, already targeting his next unsuspecting victim.

I turn to Charley, and the shift in her is immediate. Gone is the playful tease. Her entire face has tightened with concern, eyes darting like she’s searching for escape routes.

“Rip…”

I instinctively start to follow the guy, ready to rip that camera out of his hands and smash it into next Tuesday, but I catch myself. This isn’t the city. This isn’t scandal-fueled chaos. This is a sleepy, quiet place. Our quiet place.

“It’s just a local guy,” I say gently, breathing through my protective instinct. “A small-town paper. No one’s going to recognize us. Especially not in our hats.” I don’t mention the change in her hair color. She already knows.

She glances down, fingers tugging at the brim of her sunhat. “I just…”

“I know,” I say softly. And somehow, it’s enough.

Her shoulders ease. I wrap an arm around her waist and pull her in. She leans into my chest as I whisper, “That boring picture probably won’t even make it into the paper.”

She snorts. “Boring? There is nothing boring about you, Rip. You stand out like… like a giant bear. I swear, if we slapped some plaid on you, people would think you’re a lumberjack mascot come to life.”

“Okay, so no vacations in Maine next summer,” I say with a grin.

She stills, just for a second, and I feel it. That subtle change in the air. Because I said next summer . Future tense. Hopeful tense.

Crap.

Her smile falters. Not gone, just… slowed. I suspect she too is thinking about what comes afterthis bubble, about what she wants. About whether we’re both brave enough to chase something real.

My throat tightens.

Look at me. Who knew I still believed in fairy tales?

But then Charley lifts her chin, that wicked glint returning to her eyes.

“You know,” she begins, casual as ever, “There are a lot of origin stories for Paul Bunyan. Some say he was born in Minnesota. Others say Wisconsin. And a few even claim he came from Nova Scotia.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Mmhmm. So just to be safe… let’s avoid vacationing in all of those places.”

I stop breathing, because I’m sure that…that was her way of saying she’s not ready to let this go either. Please God, don’t let me be wrong about that. Maybe I am, but I’m not going to even think about that today.

I’m grinning like a fool when we hear Mrs. Callahan’s exasperated voice cut through the moment. “Will you two lovebirds hurry it up? I’m about to die of starvation over here!”

We turn to see her standing with arms crossed, glaring at us . I laugh, full and loud and unburdened. Then I reach for Charley’s hand and thread our fingers together. She doesn’t let go.

And just like that, I feel lighter.

Hell, I might even be skipping a little.

“Hot dogs all around?” I ask as I reach the table, setting down my sloth prize and eyeing Charley. “Don’t try to steal it.”

Emma bounces in her seat, hands already rubbing her belly. “I want fries too.”

“Well, of course, Emma,” I say with mock seriousness. “That’s a given.”

She giggles, scrunching her nose. “Can I help you?”

“Sure thing. You lovely ladies stay here and hold down the fort. Emma and I will brave the food line.”

“Don’t try to sweet talk me, boy,” Mrs. Callahan says with a suspicious squint, but the smirk tugging at her mouth gives her away.

Then she reaches for Charley’s hand, gently turning it to get a better look at the ring on her finger, and just like that, my stomach knots.

That earlier conversation with her comes roaring back, twisting me up inside.

I watch them for one more second than I probably should.

Charley’s soft expression, Mrs. Callahan’s knowing gaze, before Emma tugs on my hand.

“Come on, Rip. I’mabout to die from starvation.”

I laugh, unable to help it. She sounds so much like her grandmother it’s unreal.

Not that that’s a bad thing. Not at all.

We head toward the hot dog stand, weaving through crowds and cotton candy clouds.

I order a dozen dogs, because no way am I getting caught underestimating this crew, and Emma immediately gets to work collecting ketchup and mustard packets.

When she’s done, I hand her a tray of drinks. “You think you can carry those?”

She looks up at me with the same indignant glare I’ve seen a hundred times from Betsy Callahan. “Rip. I’m seven .”

I hold one hand up in surrender. “Right, right. My mistake. Clearly you’re a seasoned professional.”

With two big paper bags in my hands and Emma carefully balancing the tray of drinks and an armful of condiments, we start the walk back toward the tent. A few steps in, she lets out a dramatic sigh.

I glance over. “You okay?”

But she’s not looking at the tray. She’s looking at me. Eyes wide. Serious.

“Rip… when do you leave here?”

I blink. The question lands with more weight than I expect, like she’s not just asking for logistics, she’s asking abouteverything.

“In about a week,” I say softly.

She nods, eyes still locked on mine, as if she’s measuring that answer against something bigger. Then she looks away and walks on without saying another word.

And I realize, it’s not just Charley I’d have to say goodbye to if she doesn’t come back to Boston. It’s this whole world.

She sighs, her little shoulders rising and falling. “I love summers here. Spending time with Grandma is thebestest . But I love spending time with you and Charley too.”

My heart gives a little squeeze. “That’s great, Emma. Where’s home for you?” I ask, realizing, somewhat embarrassingly, I don’t actually know.

She points down the winding road ahead. “That way. My mom and dad work a lot, so I come stay with Grandma in the summer.”

“But you love it here,” I say, already knowing the answer.

“Yeah.” She smiles, then turns her attention to the drinks when they start to wobble in her tray. She’s got that concentrated, serious look on her face again. Then, out of nowhere, she hits me with it.

“Are you going to buy the cottage?”

I blink. For seven years old, this kid doesn’t hold back. “I’m not sure,” I say carefully, because what am I supposed to do? Tell her this whole engagement is pretend? That we’re living in some fairy tale? That outside this sun-soaked bubble, nothing’s been figured out?

But Emma isn’t done.

“Can youpleasebuy the cottage?” she whines, drawing out the word in a way only a kid could. And just like that, my heart twists again.

Because here’s the truth. I want to buy the damn cottage. I want to fill it with laughter and late-night popcorn and morning coffee on the porch. I want all the memories. With…Charley.

“Let me think about it, okay?” I tell her. It’s the most honest thing I can say. Iamthinking about it. About all of it. We reach the tent and I set down the bags just as my phone pings.

Charley glances down, the flicker in her eyes unmistakable. But I don’t look at my phone. I already know who it is.

“About time,” Mrs. Callahan huffs, tearing into the food like we kept her waiting an eternity.

As I ignore the message, my phone pings again.

Lyra.

And something hits me square in the chest. Thinkingabout Lyra doesn’t feel the same.

In fact, it doesn’t feel like anything at all.

No heat. No longing. Just…a hollow sort of pity.

Not for me. For her. She’s always chasing the next story.

Always desperate for her big break. Always one step away from something real.

I feel bad for her, honestly. Because I don’t think she’s ever had what I have right now with Charley.

Warmth. Ease. Laughter. A feeling so effortless, it steals my breath and fills me all at once.

I lovedLyra, once.

But I never loved her like this.